Nothingness
by Masochisim
Summary: There was no purpose, no gravity holding me to the Earth-just nothingness.


NOTHINGNESS

**Hey, I know that I should be working on my story Full Moon, but this is how I deal with writer's block… Enjoy!**

Better to have loved, than to not have loved at all. Is it better to feel pain for loving, than feeling this emptiness?

I wanted to feel, instead of drowning in this vast sea of unfeeling. Pain must be better than this. There is nothing worse than to live a life void of all emotion. This wasn't living-it was barely surviving.

I didn't know how I could make these wounds disappear. They may not be seen, but they were as real as any broken limb. In fact, this wound-this _hole_- was worse than anything I had felt before.

I was in a terrifying nightmare. I was searching and searching until I no longer remembered what I was looking for. That state of amnesia was what brought the screams to my throat every single night.

I was alone-completely alone. And I would stay like that forever more. The one person I related to on the same level-gone. Every sole aspect of physical proof that _he_ had existed-evaporated, besides me.

'It will be as if I never existed.' With that promise made, my existence had ceased as well. Sure, I still ate, breathed, moved, but I was vacant. How many ways can one heart be mangled, and still expected to beat? Love, life, meaning-gone, all gone, wiped away by a solitary word: no. I didn't want to keep surviving, what was the point?

Mentally, I was ready to die, but I wasn't suicidal. I was just waiting for my body to catch up with my mind.

Many a days did I go without knowing what his absence would bring. But now that I knew that I couldn't live, really live, without him. There was no purpose, no gravity holding me down to Earth-just nothingness.

I spent three months living in this wasteland called my life. Was there a way to actually feel again? If there was, I was determined to find it. Endlessly I looked and looked, drugs wouldn't do anything-in fact, they took all feeling away. As did my drug did to me.

I finally found my release, my feeling creator. I was waiting for the water to get warm in the shower when I saw them. Razors blades. Didn't I use them all the time? Why did it take me so long? But, would this work? It had to.

I stepped into the shower, holding the fine blade. I thought about where I should cut. I decided on something unimportant-my hand. I removed a single blade from the razor and held it over a blue vein in my hand. I pressed the blade down into my flesh. It didn't take much for the blood to flow out of my hand.

As I watched my own blood drip over my hand and arm, I felt something-pain. I wanted-as does a true masochist does- for more. Morbidly, I found the long faded scar on my arm.

It was a long faded pink line running from my wrist to the crease of my elbow. A scar from my disastrous 18th birthday party so many months ago, the representation of everything that had happened the terrible night…

The silver presents, the roses, opening _the _present, Edward's present, seeing the bloodlust in Jasper's eyes, in everyone's eyes…

I struggled to pull myself away from the memories, for they still hurt me me. I was rocking back and forth, back and forth. Clutching at my sides, trying futilely to hold myself together. Attempting to breathe, but not quite managing it. The very thing that I had forced my mind to never think about; filled my head. _Edward._ Just thinking his name ripped the hole even wider.

It was minutes before I could stop rocking, and stand up straight, to stop grasping at my sides. But when I finally did, it was a relief. I remembered what I was about to do, not thinking of the consequences.

I picked up the sharp blade that still held my blood upon it. I placed it parallel to my long-healed scar and pressed down. Hard.

I pressed down because of his apathetic interest, for every word, touch, kiss that had been a lie. It felt so good to finally fell something, even pain. I felt the emotional pain subside for a moment. I reveled in the temporary relief.

The water from my arm was making the blood drip onto the floor-staining it pink. I knew that I had to go to the Emergency Room and get this stiched up, but what was the point? I may not want to die, but I don't really care if I lived or died and there is a huge difference between them.

What the hell, why not? It's not like I'm going to ever really live again... That has been stolen from me...

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­--

As was her life. The girl stood there not really alive. She watched her own life-blood trickle down onto the floor, uncaringly. Such a broken, shattered, anguished girl. How could one person, one man do this to her? It just wasn't fair….

She no longer cared about anything, just _him_. She was apathetic even as she watched herself die….


End file.
